She’d woken to a portent that morning, knowing she’d birth a child. It would be a girl. The townsfolk might declare she was Valentín’s bastard, or a demon’s daughter. Who could tell, with the Quirogas? They were cursed, after all. And her mother might have questions, her eyes still damp with grief, but she’d welcome the baby. Her fingers rested against Valentín’s locket. She’d flung Arturo’s necklace with the single pearl into the river, along with the axe. It would rest there, in the muck, in the dark. Let the water have this present and do what it will with it.
